Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
“I got what you asked for!” Romeo announces, coming back into the room. “Called a few people, and got all of the property they own, and we had a guy we work with that works at AT&T, that sent us screenshots of her call log.” He hands me the phone.
The numbers don’t bring up any flags, but I’ll save it for later.
“Send that to me.” I hand him his phone back.
“And as far as property, they only have this place and some shit hole in Rhode Island,” he tells me, and my brows perk. “Bonnet Shores Beach to be exact.”
Lifting my hand, I tap my chin with my finger. Rain boots, tennis shoes, and sandals out of a closet full of Gucci, stilettos, and other fine heels. Her pickings seem out of the ordinary for her. Then the picture frame of the family by a lake. It tells me she went to the cabin.
“Pack it up. I have all I need.” I head toward the door and the mother begins to wail for me to spare her daughter. Stepping past the grandmother, she just looks at me, not a look of hatred or anger to be found.
Leona
Driving for only a half hour. I have no choice but to stop for gas, when I climbed in I only had half a tank. Dominic was waiting for me when I reached the parked car. He helped me load my luggage, set my GPS for me, and took my phone, giving me a new one. His number is the only one programmed on it. He’s the only one who knows where I’m going, and I trust him with that information. I know he could be tortured and he still wouldn’t rat. I think he should be running things instead of me, but no, everything was given to me when he left.
Sitting forward in my seat, I watch each exit I pass for lots of lights and a gas station. Yes, lights and people are good at this time of night. If I’m robbed this whole thing is for nothing and I have to turn around and go back.
Pulling off on an exit, the whole street is lit up with fast food restaurants, hotels, and gas stations. This looks like as good a place as any. Flipping on my turn signal I take a left and head toward a red and yellow gas station. Putting the large car in park, I take a deep breath and open the door. Stretching my legs out first, I yawn and slowly descend until my Louis Vuitton heels hit the concrete.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. Leaning back into the cab, I look for a button to open the gas tank. I don’t see one though. I glance under the dash and don’t find anything resembling a gas tank symbol. Standing straight, I take a step to see if the gas tank has a handle or something and find a man leaning against the back of my car. He’s wearing black pants and a blue shirt. His cheeks have stubble on them, his narrow nose making him look grumpy.
“Excuse me?” I take a step backward, my hand feet away from grabbing my gun from my purse.
“I was wondering when you were going to make a piss stop.” He finally turns, his hand twirling a toothpick in his mouth. Reaching toward the gas tank, he presses on it and it pops open.
“Who are you and what do you want?”
“Get in, we need to talk where nobody can hear us,” he states, opening the back passenger door, he climbs in. Still standing outside, I look around, curious if he’s by himself or if someone is watching us. Using my door for leverage, I climb into the driver seat, my back facing the steering wheel. Swiftly, I grab my purse in the passenger seat and set it in my lap, my hand slipping inside and caressing my gun.
“Let me begin by saying if you tell anyone about my being here I will take you and your mother in for racketeering.”
“But—”
“You don’t expect me to believe you don’t know where your father is, or that your mother didn’t know of the things he was doing when he was around, do you?” he interrupts, and a buzzing of anxiety vibrates down my back knowing I have a cop or detective in my car.
Closing my mouth, I stare at him in silence, my hand grasping my gun harder.
“I’m with the FBI, and I want to take down the DeAngelos.”
Panic strikes my chest like a bolt of electricity. Hearing him say who he’s with does nothing for my nerves. I may not label myself as one of the famiglia, but my father bestowed in me to never trust anyone outside of our circle. Especially men with badges. They will only see us as bad guys, and nothing more. Others outside our circle might think I’m ratting if I’m seen talking to one, or accidentally giving information that could sink our own, thus signing my death certificate.